


reach out and touch

by rosesau



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesau/pseuds/rosesau
Summary: a fleeting glimpse into yusuf and nicolò's relationship and touch is a love language
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	reach out and touch

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for how short this is, just had to get the images out of my head. u can find me on tumblr @rosesau love u xoxo leave a comment and i'll love u forever in exchange for the validation <3
> 
> thank u rhei for helping me with the lil italian bit, ur a gem x

Most of the time, they love each other quietly, wordlessly.

When darkness cloaks the sky, Yusuf curves around Nicolò, his clothed back a hair’s breadth from the brick wall, his nose skimming along the side of Nicolò’s neck. He slings an arm over his lover, his naked elbow on top of Nicolò’s, and slips his fingers through Nicolò’s. It’s an old move, one they’ve practiced and memorized over the years, one that instantly acts as a balm for them both. Yusuf is aware of his own heart beating more slowly, more calmly. There was a time when Nicolò’s touch sent his heart careening out of rhythm, but now the familiarity of it all soothes parts of Yusuf that even he forgets are agitated.

There’s light movement next to him and Nicolò taps Yusuf’s thigh with his unoccupied hand. “Alright?”

“Never better.”

His fingers curl over Nicolò’s wrist, fingers resting over the pulse point. He presses down, _just so,_ and takes in the way Nicolo’s heartbeat picks up pace before slowing down, like it’s greeting an old friend — a rush of excitement followed by calm serenity. _I’ve missed you,_ it seems to say. Yusuf counts every beat of Nicolò’s life under his skin and lets the familiar steadiness of it lull him towards dreams.

The nothingness of sleep is welcomed when he’s cocooned in silvery warmth with the moon in his arms.

☽￮☾

Yusuf wears his heart on his sleeve, some say. They wouldn’t be wrong. His heart on his sleeve but his love… he carries his love for Nicolò in his hands.

They found the rings in Jerusalem, some odd decades or centuries ago. The tradition of wedding rings started not very far from Yusuf’s birthplace, but he hadn’t thought he would be the kind to wear one like a showpiece, let alone two. His parents didn’t have wedding rings and he didn’t think he would. But then Nicolò stopped in a ramshackle shop when they were passing through Jerusalem and ran his finger over something, picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

The thing Yusuf learned about Nicolò very early on is that he rarely wants something enough to ask for it. He looks and longs, but he doesn’t ask, not unless it means something so deep he feels it in the marrow of his bones. It’s not in his nature to _ask,_ but he looked at Yusuf with the ring held between his fingers and said, _“Bello, non ti pare? Quasi m’appar su teco.”_ And then: _“Dovrei prenderlo?”_

Yusuf was not accustomed to hearing his Nicolò, his Nicky, ask for much. It was a rare occurrence and, without question, he said, _“Sì, hayati.”_

Where Yusuf comes from, people didn’t wear wedding rings but they valued stones. Yusuf’s father wore a flat piece of Yemeni aqeeq embedded in a silver band. Now the ring sat on Yusuf’s right hand. Years later, Nicolò’s ring has found a place next to it. Nicolò doesn’t particularly like wearing jewelry and Yusuf loves physical tokens of their love. He loves reminders of his Nicky on him.

Everywhere Yusuf goes, every door he opens and every picture he sketches, he does so with his Nicolò and his Jerusalem blinking at him.

☽￮☾

Their love pours out of their hands. It is not about rings or trinkets.

It’s in the moments when Nicolò has a bullet shot in his mouth and Yusuf waits desperately for him to wake up. His hands hover over Nicolò’s absent pulse, waiting waiting waiting for it to thrum under his skin again. It’s in the moments when Nicolò comes back to himself and startles half-upright, his scraped cheeks against Yusuf’s bloody palms. The point of contact grounds them both. It’s in the moments when Yusuf’s abdomen is sliced open and Nicolò, bloody and worn from his own injuries, gasps for air next to him. His hands crawl towards Yusuf’s, his fingers tugging uselessly at ripped clothes. It’s in the moments when Yusuf’s fingers twitch next to his and the skin where they touch comes alive. Nicolò heaves air into his lungs.

It’s in the moments they both cling to each other in every new life, hands and limbs tangled, fingers twisted around skin and bone.

It’s the art that flows from Yusuf’s hands. When he sits by the fire and his charcoal recreates the shadows of Nicolò’s features. It’s the caution in Nicolò’s hands when he kneads dough. When he carefully makes bread and Yusuf to taste it. It’s the calluses on both of their hands from centuries of war, softened and strengthened by the flowers they plant around the world.

Love swims in their every touch, a silent confession.


End file.
